charts. Now they came with no medical business whatsoever—just stole
glances at this little guy who, only two days before, was beyond their
medical capabilities but who now was up in his bed, chattering and playing
with his new stuffed lion. During that time, one of the nurses pulled me
aside. “Mr. Burpo, can I speak with you for a moment?”
“Sure,” I said.
She indicated a room across the hall from Colton’s room. “Let’s step in
here.”
Wondering what was up, I followed her into what appeared to be a small
break room. She closed the door behind us and turned to face me. Her
eyes held a deep sparkle, as though something new had just blossomed
inside her.
“Mr. Burpo, I’ve worked as a nurse here for many years,” she said. “I’m
not supposed to tell you this, but we were told not to give your family any
encouragement. They didn’t think Colton was going to make it. And when
they tell us people aren’t going to make it, they don’t.”
She seemed to hesitate for a moment; then she plunged on. “But seeing
your boy the way he is today, this is a miracle. There has to be a God,
because this is a miracle.”
I thanked her for sharing with me, then said, “I want you to know that we
believe this was God. Our church got together and prayed for Colton last
night, and we believe God answered our prayers.”
The nurse looked at the floor for a moment, then back up at me again
and smiled. “Well, I just wanted to tell you that.”
Then she left. I think maybe she didn’t want to hear a sermon from a
pastor. But the truth was, she didn’t need a sermon—she’d already seen
one.
Speaking of Colton’s experience in heaven, people have said to us,
“Your family is so blessed!”
In the sense that we’ve had a glimpse through the veil that separates
earth from eternity, they’re right.
But I also think, Blessed? We watched our son almost die.
It’s fun to talk about heaven, about the throne of God and Jesus and Pop
and the daughter we thought we had lost but will meet again someday. But